


we're only flying for a while

by picturecat



Series: 3490 fics [5]
Category: Marvel 3490, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Marriage, Relationship Negotiation, Relationship Study, Rooftops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturecat/pseuds/picturecat
Summary: “We can do this,” Captain America says.Iron Woman raises an eyebrow. “You’re confident,” she says.Steve pulls back his cowl. “Of course I am,” he says, sitting down next to her, legs dangling off the edge of the roof. He favors her with a smile. “It’s you and me, after all. We’re a pretty good team.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: 3490 fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034253
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	we're only flying for a while

**Author's Note:**

> This is another WIP I've had for years. Unlike most of them, it's actually been done this whole damn time, I just chickened out. (At least I think I did. It'll be funny if someone comments like "hey i remember this actually")  
> Title from "Synesthesia" by Andrew McMahon

“We can do this,” Captain America says.

Iron Woman raises an eyebrow. “You’re confident,” she says.

Steve pulls back his cowl. “Of course I am,” he says, sitting down next to her, legs dangling off the edge of the roof. He favors her with a smile. “It’s you and me, after all. We’re a pretty good team.”

Natasha hums noncommittally, and says nothing else. Her eyes are distant as she stares out at the sunset, reflecting the orange-red light.

Steve watches her. “If this is cold feet…”

Natasha shakes her head immediately. “No, I just…” she shakes her head again, laughs a little. “I can’t believe you want me for this.”

She leans into Steve’s shoulder, hard-edged and hardly comfortable in her armor, but Steve wraps an arm around her all the same. Tilting his head against hers, he inhales deeply, taking in a lungful of her scent—metal and roses.

“Did you enjoy your flight?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” Natasha responds. “S’been a while since I took it out on a joyride. It could use some changes to the handling, to be honest, it can get a little jerky if I take a curve too fast. But it was nice to just… think. And fly. For a little bit, you know?”

“I think I get it,” Steve says, and turns his head to tuck his nose into the messy dark curls of Natasha’s hair. This close he can feel the faintest humming of the armor, can smell her skin and sweat. He closes his eyes.

Natasha hums sweetly, almost a sigh, and her gauntlet settles on top of Steve’s free hand, hard metal smoothing over his knuckles. Emotion swells under Steve’s breastbone, a growing bubble that pushes up against the words in his throat.

“Love you,” he says, can’t help but say. Natasha’s hand stills.

“You really think that’ll be enough?” Natasha says, voice quiet, and Steve knows she’s seeing all the ways this could go wrong.

“No,” Steve says, honestly. “Lots of people love each other—that doesn’t make it work. It’s never made us work.”

“You noticed that, huh?” Natasha says, and it’s almost a smile on her face. Steve squeezes her waist.

“Especially in this business,” Steve says. “There’s been a lot of casualties, relationship-wise.” He looks away from Natasha and back out at the setting sun.

For all their back-and-forth, for all the times they’ve fought and argued and made love and tried to kill each other—he’s never been able to shut the door on their relationship. He doesn’t want them to become another one of those many couples that they’ve seen, over the years, fall in and out of love, retreating from relationships like they were failing missions. Or, worse, one of those couples who just can’t work through their issues, even with all the love in the world. He feels physically ill to imagine it: losing Natasha, not having her at his side; having so much to say to her, but living and fighting and dying without ever saying it.

It’s not hard to imagine.

Natasha pushes into his side, tugging him away from his thoughts.

“Rein it in, Winghead,” she says. “You’re brooding again.”

“Who, me?” Steve huffs. Natasha snorts.

Steve tilts Natasha’s shoulder toward him and kisses her, and she responds easily, tilting her head into the kiss and sighing through her nose. Her hair, loose from the helmet, drifts down and brushes the edge of his cheek.

The armor is a barrier, hard-edged and terribly inconvenient. Steve loves the armor, of course, but as he grasps fruitlessly at smooth shiny metal, he really wishes it were somewhere else.

Natasha pulls away first, nipping regretfully at Steve’s lips. Her armored hands slide down Steve’s flanks, repulsors humming in the palms. She tilts away by fractions, still close enough to share his air, and his vision is almost entirely her skin, the curve of her cheek and lips.

“How terribly romantic,” she murmurs throatily. “Kissing on the roof at sunset.” She looks up at him through the dark fan of her eyelashes, smiling.

“Well, it is our honeymoon,” Steve hums, bumping their noses together.

“Wait—this your idea of a romantic honeymoon getaway?” she snorts. “Beat up Nazis, meet on the roof of some random warehouse to canoodle?”

Steve puts on his most innocent expression. “What else would we do?” he asks seriously, and then ruins it by cracking a big smile.

“I had envisioned a beach somewhere,” Natasha says dryly. “And also less talking about the probably-inevitable end of our relationship.”

The mood changes.

“Not inevitable,” Steve frowns. Please not inevitable. “Maybe not easy,” he admits, and looks at the skeptical bite of Natasha’s mouth, the touch of unease, of regret, in her eyes. “Almost certainly not easy,” he corrects, nudging Natasha playfully.

She doesn’t smile.

“Worth it, though,” Steve continues, seriously, hooking his right arm around her left side and pulling her closer. She leans into his chest, head pressed against his throat. “I… you know I’m not good at this stuff,” he says. “I wish I was. Makes me feel pretty dumb, coming up to genius futurist Natasha Stark and hardly knowing how to tell her what I feel.” He inhales deeply, head nestled against the flowery scent of her hair, and then lets it out, smoothing his hand down the side panels of the chest plate. “You’re my home, Tasha,” he continues slowly. “That’s the only way I know how to say it. I never feel right when we’re at odds—”

“Me neither,” she interjects. “God, I hate it. Like, who fights Captain America? Nazis, and murderers, and a frankly alarming amount of BDSM-themed supervillains—”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk—” Steve interjects, because honestly, how many of her villains have tied her up in weird positions?

“—and also vampires, apparently,” Natasha continues, blithely ignoring him.

“There have been a few incidents with werewolves,” he reminds her.

“Of course there have,” she says, and he’s certain she’s rolling her eyes. “Naturally. But my point is, it’s not fun to be in that group. That’s some really un-ideal company.”

“Yeah,” Steve hums. “But I think sometimes Steve Rogers needs you to dig in your heels and remind him that uncompromising ideals aren’t always the best way to work.”

_ “Really?”  _ Natasha mock-gasps, leaning away to look up at him in wide-eyed shock.

Steve laughs. “You are an ass,” he snorts.

“Well, what does that say about your taste?” Natasha retorts.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply,” he says. “My taste is impeccable. You have a very fine rear.”

Natasha bursts out laughing. Steve wishes for about the 800th time that the armor was off, because he wants to pinch her.

Natasha loops her arms around his neck and kisses him sweetly, still smiling. “I love you, Steve Rogers,” she says. “I love you a lot.”

He dips his head to taste that smile on her lips and gets distracted going in for seconds, stuck on the way her mouth slackens for him, easily, welcoming, familiar. Her hands come up to cup the back of his head, hard metal fingers soothing gently through his hair, and he gets a little lost in the taste of her mouth, the warmth and minty chapstick. Eventually he eases away, remembering that he had something else to say to her.

“You should take off your shell, so I can hold you properly,” he says fondly.

She waggles her eyebrows. “What, you don’t want to make time with Iron Man?”

“Oh god, “ Steve snorts, laughs. “Sorry, but I can’t,” he grins. “I kind of married his boss. It’d be awkward.”

Natasha laughs quietly. “The good old days, huh?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t miss them,” he says. “Not as long as you’re in my future.”

She just looks at him, eyes soft, and Steve looks backs, struck by how very incredible it is that she’s here, with him, and willing to give this a shot despite their history and her fears.

He wants, very suddenly, to find a hotel with a shower and a bed and to take her to it, and fall asleep to the sound of her breaths.

And then maybe, tomorrow, to actually make their honeymoon plans.

He stands. “Come on, Mrs. Stark-Rogers,” he says, offering her a hand. “I think it’s time to find a place to rest for a while.”

She takes his hand and pulls herself up, a weight that would undoubtedly topple any normal person. She meets his gaze, smirking a little. “That’s Dr. Stark-Rogers to you. I didn’t spend all of those years in school for your disrespect, Captain Rogers.”

“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you call me Captain Stark-Rogers, now,” Steve says, and steps into Natasha’s arm. “I am a modern man, after all.”

Natasha tightens her arm around him. “And what is your modern take on the solution to a not-easy relationship?” she asks.

Steve steps onto her jet boot. “Good old fashioned hard work, of course,” he answers. “I’m up for it if you are.”

The faceplate slides shut, blocking her face, but he can see her eyes through the slits. They’re covered with some strong, clear material now, not just simple open eye-slits like they used to be, but her eyes are the same. Blue as blue ever is. He’d recognize them anywhere, now.

“Well, I’ve always been a workaholic,” she says. “You ready?”

“Always,” he says, and raps gently on the side of the helmet. “Lead the way, Shellhead.”


End file.
